It happened at a poetry slam evening in a venue full of mostly young people who were ready to jump on the stage and declaim verses, words close to their hearts. More seasoned slamming poets were also present and, I assume, at least a few were willing to go up there and impart some wordplay. The trouble is, there is never enough time to accommodate all those who have something to say. Hence, the need of an impartial draw right at the beginning of the evening. Amid applause and excitement, ten names made it on the white board.
“What? That’s it?” shouted somebody in the audience when the draw was over. “That’s it? What about me? I have a meeting with my publisher in a bit,” he said pointing to his elevated left wrist. “I need to be on that stage now. I can’t believe this!”
Any reasonable attempt to explain to him how the draw works and how it is transparent and completely random didn’t manage to calm him down. Dressed in a long brown coat and sporting a silly hat atop short, greyish hair, he moved about trying to put himself in the spotlight. Eventually, not getting what he wanted, he decided to leave and made toward the exit with grave and ample movements. Before he disappeared to meet, presumably, with his publisher, he delivered his coup de grâce:
“You’re all just a bunch of cheating poets!”